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Who left his pair of genuine-leather holsters,
Tooled for cowboy cap weapons, outdoors within the rain?
A query my father needed to take care of one morning
Some seventy summers in the past in Missouri.
He stood within the driveway, late for the workplace,
Seersucker jacket over one arm,
And weighed his choices.
Ought to he consider my brother, eight and a half,
Who claimed that the ruined holsters have been mine,
That his was the pair safely stowed inside,
Or ought to he consider me, seven,
Who claimed the other simply as loudly?
A peacemaker by nature, not a decide, my father
May need reached a call as smart as Solomon’s
If he’d had extra time to ponder his choices.
He will need to have seen, too late, that chopping the nice pair
In two along with his pocket knife didn’t clear up the issue.
Lengthy after he’d pushed off, my brother and I
Stood within the driveway, disconsolate.
After all, my brother cried extra bitterly,
Having advised the reality and been made to observe
His favourite reward being dismembered,
And by Dad, his nice protector.
If this was the type of equity accessible
Contained in the household, what might he hope for
From the world outdoors? As for me, the liar,
I used to be crying too, primarily from shock
That my father’s knowledge had lastly faltered.
I might idiot him, it appeared, if I attempted.
I didn’t have to be good to prosper.
The nice man I used to be meant to develop into
Was solely an choice in a sea of choices.
Perhaps subsequent time I might trick anyone
Into giving me not merely half
Of what wasn’t mine, however all.
What a weight to fall on me out of nowhere:
The duty of asking myself from that day on
What I actually wished.
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